


Understanding

by K_Hanna_Korossy



Category: The Real Ghostbusters
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-15 12:55:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5786023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_Hanna_Korossy/pseuds/K_Hanna_Korossy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one thing Peter has trouble forgiving his friends is when they endanger themselves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Understanding

 

First published in  _Just the Four of Us_ (2000)

 

            Quiet Sunday afternoons were rarely quiet in the firehall. Sure, there were times when Ray was off hanging out at a fandom convention with friends who shared his comics loves, or buried up in the firehall attic, reorganizing his collection. Sometimes Winston left to spend the day with his family, or perhaps sank out of sight into the big, soft chair in the living room with a new book. And lazy Sundays were definitely the perfect day for Peter to take an afternoon nap--as if he needed a "perfect day." But no matter how much the other three members of the Ghostbusters enjoyed and indulged in a little time off, there was always one of them whose idea of relaxation was working up in the lab, oftentimes with some machine that made horrendous noises and seemed the very violation of a quiet afternoon siesta. That was Egon Spengler's version of fun.

            Not Peter's. The psychologist leaned comfortably in the doorway that particular drowsy Sunday, watching in idle contentment as the blond head bobbed over the latest contraption, a permanent frown of concentration etched on his forehead. The machine looked like every other the scientist had built or so it seemed to Venkman, though he probably could have studied the components and at least taken a stab at its purpose. But that would be telling, and there was no point in giving Egon ideas. Maybe Spengler would even decide to invoke Peter's help, the younger man thought with a shudder, and that wouldn't do at all. No, it was a lot more fun this way. Watching his friend having the time of his life buried in some esoteric project was rather fun in itself, but also about as close to work as Peter had any intention of getting.

            The object of his observations paused for a moment to push his sliding glasses back upon his nose, another familiar sight that made Peter grin. Egon was, no doubt, at some level aware of his presence--they'd worked too long together for them not to be very conscious of when the others were nearby--but it wasn't at the surface level at the moment. Which meant Peter got to watch without defending his interest, and that was fine by him. Who would buy that he was just enjoying seeing his friends happy? Well, Egon maybe. Still, there was no need to get all mushy.

            Peter yawned suddenly, reminded anew of why he'd come upstairs in the first place, before the low whirring in Egon's lab had attracted his attention. It wasn't even his night to cook dinner and so he had several hours of uninterrupted peace before Winston and Ray came back and it was time to eat. Barring a lovely lady to spend the time with, his soft bed seemed a highly appealing second choice, and Peter had every intention of using it.

            With the comfortable feeling of contentment that all was right in his world, Peter turned away from the lab door with another yawn and headed for the bedroom.

            Behind him, Egon stopped again for a moment to rub at his forehead and eyes with a frown, then returned determinedly to his work.

 

            Something woke him up, something that didn't fit in at all with Peter's rendezvous with the curvaceous redhead from the club the week before, but he couldn't finger immediately what was out of place. He lay for a minute flat on his back, staring at the ceiling that was still painted with the short shadows of midday, surely not long after he'd gone to sleep. So what was it that had jolted him out of his dreams?

            The sharp smell of smoke hit his nose a second later. Peter rolled off the bed onto the floor instantly, suppressing a cough as he looked around wildly for the source of the gray waves of smoke. _The door._ It was flowing in from the hall, which probably meant--

            _Egon!_

            Peter scrambled toward the bedroom doors, already praying. The smoke wasn't excessive, just enough to make breathing scratchy and uneven, but already the smell of burning wiring and charred metal was joining the cloudy ash, and that could mean a machine fire, or, God help him, even a serious explosion. And if Egon was anywhere near that gizmo when it had blown...

            Out in the hall, the smoke was denser, more concentrated, and it was also clear where it was coming from. Peter's heart sank a little lower as he took in the black-streaked doorway he'd stood in only a short while before.

            "Egon!" he yelled, hurrying his pace as much as he could along the floor underneath the swells of gray fumes. "Talk to me!"

            No answer that he could hear, but as he fumbled past the doorway, the crackle of sparking wires dominated any other sounds. Even in the smoke-filled room, he could see the flashes of light from the machine that had melted down over the table in the middle of the room. "Egon?!" Worse than that, there was no sign of his friend, or that conspicuous blond hair. "Egon!" Peter's voice was beginning to crack from smoky hoarseness and worry.

            The cough that suddenly came from his left was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard.

            "Egon!" He plunged sightlessly forward into the billows that, at least, seemed to be all smoke and no fire, toward the sound of the jangled cough. "Egon, where are you? Talk to me, buddy," he pleaded on the brink of a coughing jag of his own. "Egon?!"

            "Pete--" another fit of hacking cut off the rest, but Peter started breathing again despite the smoke and fumes. He felt his way toward the voice, fumbling along the suddenly unfamiliar piles of knocked-about equipment, yanking his hand back once as it brushed something hot.

            "I'm coming, Egon!" Peter yelled again. And suddenly he was there, nearly tripping over a labcoat-clad arm. "Thank God," he mumbled, the lack of oxygen beginning to hit him hard, and it took nearly all his energy to drag the slack limb over his shoulder and manhandle the burden of the taller scientist toward the door. There wasn't enough air for spoken worry or nervous banter, just to keep moving, so Peter did in raw silence, scared of what he'd find when they got out of the lab. Egon was moving more-or-less under his own power, but with a pliability that was frighteningly unlike him.

            Back out into the hall. Peter paused long enough to settle Egon on the floor, leaning him against the slightly clearer far wall, then he pulled up his sweatshirt over his nose and mouth and rushed into the room again, grabbing the fire extinguisher by the door as he did. Two quick blasts at the charred pile in the room's center put out the sparks and lessened the pouring smoke. Eyes watering, Peter dropped the extinguisher and stumbled to the windows next, opening each as much as he could with one yank before proceeding to the next. By the time he'd made the circuit of the room, the air was already clearer. Still, it was with a rough cough that Peter finally stumbled out of the room and pulled the door as tight shut as he could behind him, leaning against it as he gasped in the slightly less oily, acrid air of the hall.

            His eyes fell immediately on Spengler, still where Peter had left him and motionless except for a diminishing cough. "Egon," he scraped, crawling back to the blond's side. "Hey, trying to redecorate the lab?" The joke sounded flat in his smoke-heavy voice, but it didn't matter. His hands roamed over his friend as he checked vitals, injuries, bleeding. Pulse was a little elevated but fine, pupils were reacting okay, and besides a fading raspiness to his breathing, that seem unimpaired enough, too. Nor were any injuries evident besides a few minor cuts on exposed hands and face, and one slightly bloodier one through a torn sleeve. Could Egon really have been that lucky? "C'mon, buddy, talk to Peter," the psychologist coaxed. "Are you hurt?"

            The blond head shook almost impatiently. "I'm fine, Peter. A foolish accident. I didn't think it would matter--”

            Peter frowned, uncomprehending. " _What_ would matter? Egon, what're you talking about? It _was_ an accident, right?"

            "Of course." Egon broke into another fit of coughing, leaning against Peter as he sought his breath again, and Peter absently patted his friend's back.

            Euphoria at finding Egon alive and adrenaline from the explosion, together with lingering worry at something he was missing, combined to set Peter's nerves on edge, making his hands shake with upset emotional balance. "So what happened?" he asked, frown deepening, voice still not as steady as he'd have wished.

            Egon shook his head again. "Stupid of me. I confused the lead wire with the ground wire--a neophyte mistake."

            Peter's mouth almost quirked at the thought of Egon committing _any_ mistake, let alone a "neophyte" one, but he wasn't quite ready to laugh this one off. With the realization that his friend was safe after all, came another, wholly unexpected emotion.

            "And you didn't think it would _matter_?" he suddenly spluttered, pulling back so abruptly that

            Egon nearly slid to one side. "You realize how close you came to buying it in there?!" His heart began to hammer; the thought, vocalized, terrified Peter even more than the vague trepidation had.

            "Geez, Egon, did it ever occur to you that some of us might care if you blow yourself up, even if you don't?! No experiment is worth your life! And you thought it wouldn't _matter!_?"

            Egon's face was white under the chalky streaks of soot. "I didn't mean that, Peter. Of course I know you care, it's just that I didn't expect--”

            "Well, maybe you should," Peter spat, unable to contain the fear that fed the anger. Now that Egon was okay, Venkman could have throttled him. Didn't the scientist know how important he was to them, to Peter? "How many times have you done this before, some stupid, risky experiment that blows up the lab and nearly takes you with it? Is it going to take one of us getting killed for you to stop taking stupid chances like this?!" Peter's voice soared with out-of-control alarm.

            "I am sorry, Peter," Egon said contritely, looking more abashed by the moment. His breathing halfway back to normal, he pushed himself farther upright, if gingerly.

            Peter eyed him warily, still needing to make certain that Egon was, indeed, all right. He certainly seemed to be, staring now at the closed lab door with an opaque expression. The smoke had dissipated enough that only wisps of gray remained near the ceiling. They'd probably need to repaint the hall, and God only knew what renovations the lab would need, but at least they hadn't needed to involve fire department. No thanks to Egon.

            But the thought that Egon could have _died_ , been plucked from their lives without warning like that, and from the safety of their own home, too, had thoroughly shaken Peter. It lingered in him, an awful, heavy pressure within that still threatened to explode as he clumsily climbed to his feet. All he could manage was a sullen, "Yeah, well..." without saying something they'd both later regret. The adrenaline was seeping away, and a nap was beginning to sound absolutely necessary, anyway. Downstairs on the living room sofa.

            Curtailing his angry stride and not caring how irrational he was being, Peter set his jaw and stomped down the stairs without a backward glance.

 

            He truly hadn't believed it would matter, Egon thought as he tiredly rubbed his aching forehead. The nausea had curled his stomach since early that morning and the headache had grown fierce, but he'd still been able to ignore the discomfort and concentrate on his work. He'd done that before, after all, following various mild injuries from busts. What he hadn't counted on was the sudden blurring of his vision just as he'd crossed two crucial wires. It had been a foolish underestimation, to be sure, one he could have paid for with his life.   

            That bothered him far less, however, particularly in retrospect, than Peter's vehement response. There was no question that he’d had a right to be angry at Egon's carelessness and at the danger the blond had placed them both in. It had been unconscionably reckless behavior; Egon was almost as angry with himself as Peter had been. They put themselves in harm's way enough on the job without having to face danger in the safety of their home, too. Peter's fury had been quite just.

            Egon winced at the thought as he carefully levered himself up. His stomach did a heaving flip-flop at the motion and he swallowed hard to keep it in its place, regretting the pancakes Ray had coaxed him into that morning. No matter. He deserved Peter's remonstrations thought they sickened him far more than the unsteady room. Egon had always prided himself on being a careful and exact scientist--had he grown careless, not only with his own but, God help him, with his friend's lives? If Peter had somehow been hurt through Egon's clumsiness that afternoon...

            It didn't bear thinking about. He would have to make amends, and cleaning up the place would be a start. With a quiet sigh and thoughts as upset as his stomach, Egon returned to the lab to take stock of the damage.

 

            It hadn't been as bad as he'd feared, although the layered soot would take a while to clean off of and out of things. The table the fluctuation modulator had been on was a complete loss, as was the modulator itself, and some breakables nearby had been cracked or shattered by bits of flying debris, but otherwise they'd been very fortunate. All of them. Egon was thankful, even as he shook his head again at his own stupidity.

            Clean-up was slow and painstaking, nor did it help that the room did slow pirouettes every time he bent over to pick something up. The open windows had also chilled the room considerably and Egon shivered miserably in the occasional late-September breeze. His head pounded, resounding to Peter's accusations. _Is it going to take getting one of us killed for you to stop taking stupid chances like that?!_ Surely Peter didn't think that, even if that afternoon's events might have given him cause to. Egon was the first to realize that Peter tended to lash out when he was scared, but there had been some truth to what he’d said. The thought was disturbing.

            Speaking of which...his insides gave an unexpected lurch, unwilling to be ignored or quelled any longer. Egon found himself lunging out of the lab door, into the bathroom into a most graceless sprawl before the toilet, only moments before his stomach proceeded to contract itself into the tiniest ball possible. His lungs joined the struggle a moment later, squeezing all the air of his body. The threatened malaise suddenly manifested itself, taking all the support out his knees. It didn't seem like it was going to end, the lack of oxygen scattering black spots in front of his eyes.

            But he wasn't alone, Egon eventually realized. Sometime during the unpleasant ordeal, a firm arm had slipped beneath his own to buttress his slumped body, and a warm palm, the fingers trailing off into his limp hair, propped his face above the open toilet. It was a mortifyingly base state for anyone to see him in but, through the confusion and misery of illness far, Egon couldn't seem to care too much. The heat of another body next to him took the edge off the chill from the cold tile and porcelain, and only the strength of the support kept him from sliding face-first onto the floor. Most importantly, the steady voice in his ear, audible even over his gasping and choking, relaxed and eased his tense body just enough to allow him to suck in some air.

            "That's it," came the encouragement. "Try to relax and breathe, Spengs. Ride it out."

            _Peter._ Peter was having quite a time with him that day. Egon pressed his eyes shut and concentrated on breathing. The insistence that his stomach compress itself completely was finally beginning to fade to controllable levels, and Egon felt himself sag more heavily against Venkman. It didn't seem to bother the psychologist at all. He compensated, bracing himself and taking the weight as if it were nothing. Egon stopped trying to analyze it, too exhausted for the effort, and instead let his friend make the call. Surely Peter would see he was okay now and would leave him be to marshal his strength and pull himself back together.

            He should have known Peter better. With some cheerful remark that slipped right past Egon's mushed brain, Venkman stretched and moved behind him, muscles contracting against Egon’s back, then water running to his side, and suddenly a lukewarm and coarse but wet washcloth ran over his face and mouth. That was followed by a glass of water, colder this time, pressed against his lips. Weakly, Egon rinsed and spat. Shame burned his already flushed cheeks, but his body felt like a wet paper towel, flimsy and limp, and he had no energy to resist.

            Peter didn't seem to care. The water glass removed, he next somehow got Egon onto his unsteady feet and all-but-carried him into the bedroom. Egon's bed was farthest from the door and he had no idea how they'd make it but somehow they did, and a minute later he was tucked in under the warm blankets and cool sheets. Going vertical immediately steadied his spinning head and insides.

            He was definitely ill. There was no question of that, every muscle of his body aching far more than the explosion had given it cause for. The sickness had hit so suddenly, he'd been completely unprepared for the severity of the attack even though he'd had enough warning signs. One more result of his carelessness, he realized to his chagrin. Peter's voice buzzed on worriedly around him, and Egon dragged his eyes open long enough to take in the concerned green eyes that hung, disembodied, above his face. "I'm sorry, Peter," he sighed contritely, then curled on his side away from the psychologist, and went to sleep.

 

            Peter made a face at the sleeping figure, resisting the urge to kick both Egon and himself in the seat. _Sorry_ \--sorry for what?, he'd almost asked, but he'd have been stupid not to know after the chewing out he'd given Spengler only an hour before. _Sorry._ As if Egon's just being alive and all right weren't, ultimately, the most important thing.

            Except he wasn't really, not if that little display in the bathroom had been any sign. At first, Peter had been afraid that he'd missed some sign of trauma in Egon, especially to his head, a worry that still made him go cold. But the flesh beneath Peter's fingers had been hotter than the flush of exertion accounted for, and Egon's achiness and weakness after the sick spell spoke more of illness than injury. There was also little doubt in Peter's mind that the developing illness had played some part in the lab accident, probably manifesting symptoms Egon had ignored until it was too late. Peter shook his head with exasperation that was part fondness. For a boy genius, Egon could be awfully dense sometimes.

            Peter blew out a gust of frustration, then got up and went to the linen closet to dig out more blankets. If it were stomach flu or some other bug, Egon would need the warmth to combat fever, as well as mild foods and liquids, and some looking after. A call to Charlie Zeddemore, Winston's physician brother, was probably a good idea, too. Stomach flu was more nasty than dangerous, probably negligible as long as they made sure the physicist took care of himself, but Peter at least was not one to take chances with his friends.

            Besides, he had a little making up to do.

 

            Nursemaiding was never fun. No matter how much you cared for the person, feeding them, helping them throw up, cleaning up after them, walking them to the bathroom, was no one's idea of a good time. Nor did it help that you did it all while watching someone you cared about be absolutely miserable. About the only consolation came from knowing that what you did helped and perhaps even eased the ordeal for the other. It was some comfort when you got utterly exhausted and discouraged. And it didn't take long for Peter to get there.

            Actually, sharing the duty helped. Ray and Winston had both arrived home within hours of Peter’s discovering Egon on the bathroom floor, and both his teammates had immediately, concernedly, thrown themselves into helping. They'd all had their bouts with different bugs that

the others had seen them through, and no one gave it a second thought. It was, Peter thought with some small measure of satisfaction, teamwork--and friendship--at its best.

            Charlie Zeddemore had been by and pronounced Egon ailing with the stomach flu but progressing fine just as Peter had expected, but he was grateful for the relief of a professional diagnosis. Considering all the could-have-beens, they'd been very fortunate that day.

            Explaining the lab to the other guys had been a little bit harder. Peter had seen some flicker of understanding in Winston's expression, but Ray had only gone wide-eyed and dismayed when he'd heard Peter's reaction and the anger that still lingered in the psychologist's voice at the reminder. Sympathy had always come easier for the engineer, far more so than any negative emotion, nor did it hurt that he had a weakness for blowing up the lab on occasion himself, and didn't quite see Peter's point. Frustrated, Peter had let the matter drop. Not that it mattered much now, anyway. Winston didn't look like he agreed, but that had been the end of it.

            Until Ray was busy reading to a drifting Egon upstairs late that evening, and Zeddemore cornered Peter in the kitchen.

            "Pete, you think Egon being sick made him mess up his experiment and caused the meltdown?"

            The question was almost casual, but Winston had a knack almost as keen as any trained psychologist's for apparently nonchalant piercing questions. Peter, like any trained psychologist, noted the ploy and parried back. "Maybe. He wasn't really clear on that between trying to catch his breath in all the smoke, and puking his guts out in the bathroom." Venkman opened the refrigerator and retrieved the milk. "Does it matter?"

           Winston shrugged. "I was just thinking, if a person's sick, it kinda muddles his thinking, you know? Like when Ray had that high fever last year and thought you were Aunt Lois." He grinned at Peter.

            Peter couldn't help but grin back. It had rattled him then, but with Ray safely out of danger now it seemed mostly funny. "Yeah, I know..." 

       

            The eldest Ghostbuster studied him. "But that doesn't make up for some stupid choices and putting himself in danger, huh?"

            The reminder was one Peter didn't need, and his eyes hardened. "Drop it, Zed," he said quietly, trying to reach around Winston for a glass.

            "Uh-uh." Winston retrieved a glass from the cabinet instead and handed it over. "It's still bothering you, isn't it."

            Peter's mouth drew tight. "He almost got himself killed. Superman--thinks he's invincible." The milk sloshed out of the glass he tried to pour it into.

            Winston silently grabbed a paper towel and mopped up the spill. "No, he doesn't," he mildly corrected, "he just doesn't think at all. You know Egon, he gets all wrapped up in something and the building could fall down around him and he wouldn't notice."

            "It's a good way to get hurt," Peter said darkly.

            "Could be," Winston nodded, conceding the point. "He's usually smarter than that and you know it. But when he's not...is that any different from some of the bonehead things you've done?" A smile took the sting out of the words. "Besides the fact that Egon was the one who was in danger?"

            Peter glared at him. "You fight dirty, Zeddemore."

            Winston's smile grew. "Hey, one of my chief talents. But I'm right."

            "Modest, too," Peter drawled sarcastically. He wasn't about to concede Winston's point and they both knew it, but the words had hit. He straightened, affecting sudden outrage. "Bonehead?!"

            Message received. With a laugh, Winston clapped him on the back and left with the glass of water he'd come down for.

            Behind him, Peter sat down at the table with his glass of milk to think.

 

            The shadow world of illness confused time and place, leaving only a series of disconnected impressions, the gist of things rather than details.  

            Sometimes he knew Ray was there, so frankly worried for him and caring in his efforts that Egon would have known him no matter what. That kind of purity of love could only be Ray. Each smile and word Egon managed brought the younger man real pleasure, and it was profoundly reassuring to have someone like that at his side, as it had always been. The Rays of the world were pretty rare and Egon had always known his fortune.

            Winston was whom he woke up to sometimes, and the black man's presence, much like the man himself, was as calm and practical as always. It was he who separated Egon's fever-dreams from reality, and whose quiet explanations of what was going on and assertions that everything was okay made sense of things again for a while.

            He also talked about Peter, enough for Egon to get a sense that Peter wasn't angry at him anymore. If he had any doubts, they didn't last long with Peter at his side. His oldest and closest friend wasn't always the easiest one to get along with, or the most obvious with his feelings. But Peter's friendship was all the deeper for being hard won, and he knew Egon better than anyone in the world. The opposite also held true. And in Peter's touch and soothing and distracting there wasn't any hesitation. No matter what blunders Egon committed or how he raised Peter's ire, that was the promise of unchanging friendship he could always return to.

            That kind of care healed the soul as well as the body.

            Being sick was, as Peter would say, not Egon's idea of fun. Food and his stomach didn't get along for some time; the room seemed to have two settings: "sway" and "rotate"; and he couldn't seem to get warm enough no matter how heavy the pile of blankets got on him. Even worse, the ache in his head made clear thinking impossible, a state that bothered Egon considerably when he was awake enough to grasp it. But things could definitely have been worse.

            With a cool compress over his eyes and a quiet voice reading steadily in the background, a promise that his world was in safe hands, Egon Spengler gamely wandered back into the healing realm of sleep.

 

            "Yo, Egon!"

            The cheerful greeting would have made Spengler smile except that he was engrossed in a particularly interesting tome and it wouldn't do at all to look happy at the interruption. He raised an eyebrow instead at Peter as the psychologist trudged up the last of the steps and skirted them to enter the living room. With as much dignity as could be mustered while swathed in a cocoon of blankets, Spengler said, "Must you yell, Peter? I've been ill, not deaf."

            Peter's grin didn't falter as he plunked himself down on the sofa opposite the physicist and summarily gave the blanketed feet a shove to make room for his own. "Just wanted to make sure you were awake. Never can tell--last night you would have taken a header in your soup if Winston hadn'ta stopped you."

            That brought a faint blush to Egon's cheeks. He wasn't positive that had occurred exactly, but when he still was prone to drift in and out a bit, and when he'd blinked last night to find his friends watching him in amusement and the soup he thought he'd been eating suddenly nowhere in sight ...well, it was possible. Not that he'd ever admit it.

            Peter let him off the hook, as he always knew just when to do. He grew serious, looking at Egon more closely. "How're you feeling today? You look better."

            Better than what?, Egon was tempted to ask, but didn't. He didn't want to know. "I am feeling much better, thank you. I was just reading about the _Serratia marcescens_ , a bacterium that grows in--"

         Peter groaned, raising a hand to forestall the explanation. "Forget it, I don't want to know. You've got to be feeling better if you're reading that stuff."

            Egon closed the book, holding it in his lap. "Actually, I meant to thank you. I went into the lab earlier to look for something to read and found no trace of the modulator's explosion. It appears you've been busy."

            Peter shrugged off the praise, gaze suddenly elsewhere as it often was when he was embarrassed by a compliment. "No biggie--all three of us worked on it. If we left it up to you, you'd probably blow the place up again."

            The tease struck a tender spot. "I am sorry about that, Peter. I would never intentionally endanger myself or anyone else, you know that." Egon asked seriously.

            "Yeah, Spengs, I do," Peter answered in kind. “But that’s a little hard to remember when I’ve just pulled you out of a lab that looks like it had Zool for a decorator, you know?”

            Egon winced. “It was only a small, contained explosion--”

            “--which I didn’t even know if you’d survived at first,” Peter finished levelly.

            There was no good answer to that. Egon knew the feeling from far too much personal experience. He gave the psychologist, his oldest friend, a meaningful look, and said solemnly instead, “I will endeavor to be more careful in the future, Peter.”

            “You’d better, or our redecorating bill’s going to start rivaling our electric bill,” Peter said, back to the flip attitude he’d always been more comfortable in. But as he stood, tapping Egon once on the leg in parting, he gave the physicist a fond wink.

            Egon shook his head as he picked up the book in his lap and found his place again. But as he continued the fascinating description of _Serratia marcescens_ , a smile lingered on his face that had nothing to do with red bacteria.  


End file.
